A look inside...

my to-do list for today and this weekend...

• Buy and mail anniversary card for Mom & Pop
• Go to the post office for stamps
• Grocery shop
• Pick up photos
• Scan photos to be copied
• Find cards for Nurses' Week
• Figure out what to bring for the Nurses' Week pot luck on Monday

Projects to do:

• Tiara's graduation booklet
• Navy booklet for dad
• Army booklet for brother
• Bear's curtains
• Paint swatches for room
  

FMLYHM

[frog asked me to do this for her, and i'm posting it so you can see my girl the way i do...]

"I love the sound when you come undone..."

I'm sure I have seen you play a million times, but there are only a few that stand out in my mind. I remember the very first time I saw you play. It was with Daddy Ron down by the river. I remember being so nervous for you, but you seemed very...."with it." By now, you were a seasoned veteran at this stuff while I was still the green tadpole.

I remember watching as he led you to the horse, and I remember thinking that there was no way I'd be able to get on the thing as easily as you did. I won't say that Daddy Ron beat the hell out of you because I've seen you take greater pain, but it was a far cry from soft. I remember being worried about you; but when I saw your face, I knew it was all like rain. And when he put you in the cage...and left you there...and left you there...? I thought you would be upset at being left because he seemed to have forgotten about you....but you became a different person then....a different being. The air around you even changed. I wanted to know you then...so incredibly badly...but a part of me knew that I couldn't be in that moment with you. One of us always felt the need to take care of the other one.

You always have this moment during a scene. You're like me more than you know - only I was the physical version of your mental struggle. In every scene I've ever seen (rhyme!), you struggle with yourself. Ultimately, I think that is why we were there to begin with - to struggle against ourselves. On the outside, you have a calm, cool, collected exterior shell. It keeps you safe. It keeps you at a distance. During the scene, though, you had to get beyond that and be vulnerable - something I think you dislike as much as I do. I always could see it on your face. Your features always showed the struggle to keep up the exterior and get to the end result. We can't do both, though, and I always knew the minute you gave over and accepted the pain as your due. I think, in some ways, you wanted to keep up your exterior because you could BE the good submissive then. I think you were afraid that if you let go, you wouldn't be as good. It was beautiful to watch, though; and after, you were always pliant like water. It would sort of sneak up on you sometimes and flash across your face - particularly your constantly-knitted forehead. And then, your features would smooth, and you would sink into your body, and you would go further than you originally intended.

When I saw you take the single tail, I remember wondering if you'd get mad. The last time you had played, you had to get mad in order to get there. This was another stranger, and I wondered if you would have to get mad again. You never looked more to me what you fantasized to be than in that moment. And I've seen many moments when you were TRYING to get the look. This was natural. This was from your core. I could tell you were scared because you wouldn't stop moving your fingers. You knew from the beginning that it was going to hurt, but I could tell from your body language that pain was the whole point. I think you were trying to prove something, but I could never figure out what it was. You had the posture of someone trying to make a point. "I can DO this." It occurred to me later on that maybe you were trying to prove to Darrin that he couldn't hurt you as he so greatly feared. It takes a tremendous amount of love for someone to give people like us what we desire, and I think few people can stomach the results...even such a large Moose.

I also remember thinking that you looked like milk when the first strikes began to fall. You were there, shaking your head no, but your body was becoming loose, like you always do, like water. But your skin was so creamy that you reminded me of milk - the consistency of water without the lack of obvious color. And I remember you cried. And I remember the marks on your shoulders and back. And I remember that the air around you changed. In that moment, you were a whole person. I'd never seen it before, and I've never seen it since. Every fragment I'd ever seen of you sluiced into a whole being - a wholly fulfilled being. Whatever it was that pain gave you, you had it in spades at that moment. It rolled off of you in waves. It was sweet like candy, and I had to sit down. I have no idea how you got down from that cross because I don't remember anything after that moment.

I miss those moments - not only for myself but for you. I miss seeing you that way - vulnerable in a way you could never be with me. I enjoyed being the voyeur to those secret parts of you. I miss knowing that you have that, that the desire is fulfilled for you, and that you can have - at the very least - moments of being complete.

Mad Pride

The concept of pain has been on my mind today. (I, quite frequently, delve into random thoughts while droning through work.)

Children of the Cross, as I like to think of us. Yes, I know, that probably doesn't make sense to a million people out there, but it makes sense to me, and it will make sense to some of you, too. We were young, we were incredibly fucked up, and we needed something solid. Pain is a solid force when you surrender to it. Pain can make the haze clear (or the clear hazy, if that's your goal), and pain can make everything seem worth it. Kinksters, we were not; we were in it for the pain - don't let anybody fool you. The people who made it about sex pissed us off, and we made it clear that we were here for a purpose. We wanted to see that white light on the outsides of our gaze, and we could fight off four or five of you to get there. We had something to prove - even if we didn't know what it was at first. But beyond that, we had something to gain, something to attain. We were the subculture within the subculture. And it was a beautiful thing. (The most beautiful thing I have ever seen is your face, flushed red, when you felt the first sting of the single tail. Pig tails be damned; you were THE woman, the first woman, the only woman, in that moment.)

Nearing 30 now, I often ponder the psychology of pain, the purpose of it, and whether or not I'd ever go back to that place. I do miss it. I long for that fuzzy feeling like it was a limb I've lost. Sometimes, I feel lost without it. It was while pondering this concept of pain that I came across the Newsweek article "Mad Pride." BAM! The concept of pain smashed headlong into the concept of fucked-up-ed-ness and the origin of all the not-too-normal.

I spend a lot more time than I let on thinking about what is normal. Was I ever normal? Did I enjoy being a lot LESS normal than I am now? Surely, there are drawbacks to being fucked up just as there are drawbacks to being medicated and on an even-keel. I remember the highs and lows of letting my body, my brain, and my emotions do whatever they wanted. I remember that I used to write poetry, fiction, and songs. I remember that I felt a deeply connected spiritual grounding that I feel I have lost. I was a damn-strong mentalist (we'll not use words like psychic around here, Missy), witch, and healer. DAMN STRONG. I remember that I enjoyed pain because I enjoyed the end-result. The path to it wasn't important; only the moment when I got there was important. I could choose to do anything to get me there. Some would argue that we were not unlike addicts in our quest for pain-zen. I know I sure was. I chose to give up MUCH in that search.

But there are some days when I feel I've been numbed to all of that just so I can do what is expected of me. If I want to get out of bed every day and come to work, I have to take my medication. How much have I sacrificed to be part of "normal" society? Gone are the crosses. Gone are the spine-numbing heels. Put away are the instruments of pain. They collect dust, and it makes me sad. Mom jeans (though I am not a mom) and sensible shoes pack my closet now, and a Saturday night means in bed by 10PM.

In every culture in the world but America, the state of being fucked up is celebrated. You can talk to a spirit? The Native Americans would be elated. You can feel someone's pain and diagnose their illness? India is calling you. You say you can hear ghosts? Britian has a TV show just for you. If you can do any or all of these things in America, however, you are promptly labeled and drugged. Even if you can't see or hear ghosts but you just can't-get-out-of-bed, we've got a pill for you. Beyond this, in every culture in the world but America, the state and concept of pain are revered also. Because pain leads to the state of fucked up, which ranks highest among what people can do to make themselves more god-like or bring themselves into harmony with their gods. In my mind, you can't have one without the other. When we became "normal," we stopped seeking out pain. We stopped seeking that state of zen because we had bills to pay, husbands to feed, and we were incredibly fed up with the bullshit we got from the other members of our subculture. When did that happen? When did we cross over from Children of the Cross to Baggers of the Groceries? And why can't we go back? Are we on the outside now, forever?

The discussion about Mad Pride is one I have had with myself a million times. Would I be better off without my medications? Would I be happier? More creative? More spiritual? Or, am I just better where I am now making sure I am able to do what society says I must? Is there a happy medium? I want to believe that I can do both; but on some days, it is incredibly difficult when just being a normal worker-fish makes me so goddamn tired. What room is there for pain, for fucked-up spirituality when you're so tired? The thought of being a weekend-er pisses me off. It relegates something incredibly personal to me, incredibly important to me to a hobby. I truly feel as though I am hiding part of myself, part of my history and story, by just being 9-to-5 fish. I feel like a fake because I'm not all here - part of me is still back there waiting for the next strike.

New Haircut

Thepictures are grainy because I took them from my very-old webcam. :)